All We Have Lost (12 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sarah arrives home with a penname – Sexton. Her debut novel is already a number one bestseller.
The Sunday Independent
wants an outdoor photo of the author. Sarah suggests my garden, thinking that she can catch up with me at the same time. Unfortunately, she fails to run this by me. So I don’t get to warn her about the state of our garden.

Seeing it now, she realises her mistake.

‘Jesus, Kim, what happened here?’

I glance at the kids, one of whom is watering the grass with sand.

‘Here, grab the bike and scooters and we’ll throw them in the shed.’

‘What about all the other stuff?’

‘That too. Guys, give us a hand. Everything into the shed.’

They jump up, excited at the idea of a sudden mission.

‘Even the sandpit?’ asks Chloe.

Sarah goes over. ‘Good God. Is that muck in there?’

‘We’ll just cover it,’ I answer them both.

‘Aww, Mum,’ complains a muddy Sam.

Sarah’s look is: I-will-
never
-have-children. She checks her watch. ‘Oh God.’

‘Movie time,’ I say.

‘But we don’t want a movie now.’

‘I’ll give you ice cream.’

They nod, coolly, negotiation complete.

Settling them in front of the TV, I glance out into the garden and smile. The manicured, coiffed, professionally-styled glamour puss is picking up mucky trucks with the tip of her finger and thumb and holding them out from her as she totters in her Miu Miu’s to the shed.

Garden surprisingly respectable, we open a bottle of wine and wait for the photographer.

‘So. How’s Theo?’ I ask.

She grimaces.

‘What?’ I ask.

She gulps wine as though washing down a pill. Then she sighs. ‘That didn’t work out.’

‘But you were engaged!’

She lights up, takes a phenomenal drag, tilts her head back and blows smoke into the already grey sky.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

She waves her hand. ‘Lucky escape, really. Mummy fixation.’ She tops up our glasses and raises hers. ‘To the Irish male – seems you can’t beat him after all.’ But I can tell that she’s gutted. ‘How are things with you and that sexy husband of yours?’

I can think of a lot of adjectives; sexy isn’t one of them. ‘Fine.’ Moving right along…. ‘So how’s fame?’

She shakes her head. ‘Hilarious. Everyone wants to know who the real people are behind the characters.’

‘I’m dying to read it.’

From her oversized designer bag she produces a copy.

‘Wow! It looks great. Such an
achievement
, Sarah. Seriously.
Huge
congratulations.’

‘Open it.’

It’s autographed. Which is weird. Like I’m a fan. Which I’m sure I will be…. ‘Thanks, Sarah.’ I leaf through the pages, then glance up. ‘You must be so proud.’

‘Haven’t really stopped to think. But yeah. I guess.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Well, it’s a contemporary story of an affair,’ she begins like she’s surprised I haven’t heard.

‘No, I mean, the life. What’s it like being a published author?’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, fine. I guess. A bit weird total strangers coming up and telling you you’ve written their life.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Had a woman this morning. Told me she was just like the main character, missing the most obvious signs that her husband was having an affair. She didn’t want to see it. Kept making excuses for him. When it was so
obvious
.’

‘Poor thing.’

‘Bit of an idiot, though. It was a textbook case. Late nights, always out, never up for a shag, touchy.’

Suddenly, this has become personal. ‘People work late, Sarah. They get too tired to shag. Marriage is
hard
. Bloody hard.’

She stares at me.

‘You don’t know what it’s like with kids. You just don’t know.’

‘Yeah and I don’t want to.’

‘You should listen to yourself sometimes. You sound so bloody smug, like you’ve life sussed and everyone else is a moron. Life is messy, Sarah.’

‘Life with kids certainly is.’

‘Yeah, well, be careful not to air that view in the media. There are people out there going through this shit. And it’s not easy.’

‘Point taken,’ she says pointing her cigarette at me. ‘Don’t want to turn off potential readers. You always were good at PR.’

I look at her and wonder if she lost her heart somewhere between New Zealand and New York.

The doorbell rings. She takes out a mirror while I go let the photographer in.

‘Kim? Kim Waters?’

‘Hey, Pete!’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I live here.’

‘I’d
heard
you’d quit. Good for you. You’re writing now, yeah?’

‘Trying.’ I smile.

I show him out the back and introduce him to Sarah. Then leave them to it.

I go in to the kids and tell them that our garden will be famous – we’ll buy
The Sunday Independent
and celebrate.

Sarah stays in town for three days. On her last night, she calls around to say goodbye. Ian, who was never a fan, seems to find her suddenly fascinating, asking question after question about publishing. How did she find her agent? What’s her fan mail like? Will her advance allow her to write full-time? And though I’m a shadow in the room, it
is
good to see him animated. And it
is
good to learn more about my dream world and have a new energy in the house. I know that everything about Sarah highlights my shortcomings. Still, her visit serves as a temporary blip in a downward spiral. I wish I could make it last. Instead, I call Connor and ask him to put her up. London’s her next stop and she’s tired of hotels. I hang up and immediately wonder if that was wise.  

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It’s a Saturday morning and my birthday. Ian is up early, getting ready for golf. I go into the en suite to use the loo. He’s standing in front of the mirror, slapping on aftershave.

I stare at him. ‘What are you
doing
?’

He practically drops the bottle. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re allergic!’

‘Oh. This stuff’s OK.’ He lifts up the bottle.

‘Why are you wearing aftershave all of a sudden?’

‘I don’t know. A change.’ He checks his watch. ‘Gotta go.’

I don’t know whether he’s forgotten my birthday or decided not to bother. I’m so used to not caring, I’m surprised how close to tears I come.

I bring the laptop to bed. And lose myself in words.

‘Happy Birthday, Mum!’

I look up to see Chloe carrying in a tray, Sam skipping beside her. He gives a little jump. My heart lifts and breaks at the same time.

Their breakfast is Cornflakes mixed with Coco-Pops, soggy now and drowning in sugar.

‘Thank you
so much
, guys. I’m so proud of you. Come up here beside me.’

‘Eat up,’ Chloe says.

‘Yes sir.’ I wink. And get going.

Beside me, they watch each spoonful reach its intended destination.

‘Best breakfast ever,’ I say.

We plan the day. Then kick it off with flying. Chloe goes first. I lie on my back, place my feet under her hips, my hands under her shoulders. She stretches out her arms and legs as I move her back and forward through the clouds.

‘Wee,’ we say together.

‘My turn! My turn!’ shouts Sam.

Finally, we go downstairs. Ian’s golf clubs are lying against the back door. In his hurry to get out, he must have forgotten them. I’m surprised he hasn’t rung to give out because, for some reason, this, too, will be my fault.

But he doesn’t ring.

I remember the aftershave. And remind myself that I trust my husband.

The beautiful oil painting Mum presents me with makes me cry. Connor calls from London to send his best wishes. Then he puts Sarah on the line. They sound so happy, so carefree. So much younger than me – though neither is. 

I bring the kids on a train ride. We have a picnic and feed the ducks on St Stephen’s Green. And I try not to think that Ian should be here.

From the kitchen window I nurse a coffee watching them play in the sandpit, Chloe sifting sand like a domestic goddess. The gene must have skipped a generation.

Ian comes home smiling. He even gives me a hug.

I think, he’s remembered.

‘It’s OK. I’ve eaten,’ he says.

‘How was the golf?’ I manage.

‘Great.’

‘Didn’t miss the clubs then?’

‘What?’

‘You forgot your clubs. I was surprised you didn’t ring for them.’

His expression changes quickly but I see it in slow motion. Panic, embarrassment, guilt.

‘I borrowed James’s,’ he hurries.

‘James? My
brother
?’ But how? James is in the States.

‘No, James from work, the guy I play with.’

‘Oh. You never mentioned him before.’

‘Yes, I have. You just never listen.’

I would if he actually talked. He wouldn’t have mentioned a James any more than he’d have mentioned a Melanie.

‘So who is he?’

‘Why the sudden interest?’

‘You accused me of not listening; well, now I am. Who is he?’

‘Just some guy at work.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Malahide.’

‘Malahide? And he comes all the way over here to play golf?’

‘Golfers travel for their sport,’ he says like he’s in the know and I’m not.

‘Where do you even play?’ I can’t believe I don’t know where he goes on Saturdays. Don’t I care enough to ask?

‘Elm Park.’

‘Really? I thought the waiting list was closed.’ Thank you, morning radio.

‘It is but the guys at work are members and got me in.’

‘How much did it cost?’

‘A few hundred.’

‘Really, is that all?’ He’s actually lying to my face.

‘I can’t remember. It might have been more.’

‘It’s just that I thought we were checking big expenditures with each other.’ Rule made after the tumble-dryer fiasco.

‘Kim I happen to be earning the money around here.’

‘So you keep reminding me.’

‘So have we finished with the fifty questions?’

‘No. We’ve only just started. Who is she, Ian?’

He narrows his eyes. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard me. Who is she?’

‘What are you on about?’

‘I mightn’t have tits the size of melons but I’m not stupid.’

‘Well you sound pretty stupid, right now. For crying out loud. Do you
know
what you’ve just implied? Do you have
any idea
how that makes me feel?’

I smile rather than puke. ‘Don’t ever take up poker, Ian. You’re a shit bluffer.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Attack has always been your chosen form of defence.’

He looks stunned.

‘And for the record, I don’t give a
shit
how you feel. Your clubs are under the stairs. And the children are in the garden. Mind them for a change.’ I walk out.

I run upstairs, heart pounding. There is no golf, no James. And the aftershave? Camouflage. To remove the scent of her. And maybe I knew that this morning. But I trusted him – or needed to. I grab a pillow and fling it at the wall. He’s right. I
am
stupid. How long has this been going on? I have to know. Everything. Though it will kill me.

The desperate hunt for receipts begins. Receipts for what, though? Lingerie? Romantic meals? Chocolates? Spa treatments? Movies I haven’t seen (i.e. anything non-animated)? Where does he keep them? He doesn’t do the accounts at the kitchen table any more – that, in itself, is suspicious. Where does he do them, now? And where does he hide the receipts? I throw my hands in the air. Who am I? Jessica Fletcher? And why Jessica Bloody Fletcher? Why not Temperance from
Bones
? Or some other gorgeous creature.

Maybe he keeps them in the attic.

I can’t search, not properly. Not while he’s in the house.

I hear Sam and Chloe on the stairs. Sam calls me. Can’t Ian do that one thing – just keep an eye on them while I implode? I hurry into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.

‘What are you doing up here?’ Chloe asks.

I turn off the tap and scrub my face with a towel. I look at her and smile. ‘What are
you
doing up here? I thought Dad was minding you.’

‘He’s cross.’

I sigh. ‘OK.’

I bring them back down. And the only reason they stay is because I put on
Monsters Inc.
and give them ice cream.

‘I’ll be down soon,’ I tell them.

At the end of the stairs, I see his briefcase, tucked behind the coat stand. I don’t bother to check if the coast is clear, just grab the black rectangle and run upstairs. In the bathroom, I lower the lid on the toilet seat. I sit staring at the combination lock. I used to know the magic numbers – my birth date. It used to be in all his passwords. I hold my breath and move the dials. The snap pops open and I’m filled with despair. He hasn’t even tried to hide this.

I sit looking at the interior of the briefcase, unable to take the next step. You see, I know this briefcase. I bought it. We joked about the secret compartment. If he has used it to hide his dirty secret, it will be the final blow.

And yet I can’t sit here forever.

I take a deep breath. And open it.

My heart is pounding, my palms sweaty. Part of me wants to know. The other part chooses denial.

The strong part wins. 

I reach for the compartment.